


watch me disappear into the sun

by plinys



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: After Effects of Brain Washing, Character Study, Episode: s02e16 Doomworld, F/F, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: Being in Star City, in the city that had always been her home, that she misses every time she’s away from it, was supposed to bring her comfort.Now it does none of those things.(Or: Sara's stuck in Doomworld, with no hope of fixing things. Trying to find her place in this terrible new world.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beej wrote Doomworld Nyssara angst for me, and I said challenge accepted and wrote Doomworld Sara angst with a bit of Nyssara at the end, so enjoy?

Some nights she wakes up and she can’t breathe. 

They stuck here in ‘Doomworld’. 

The name coined by Nate, repeated until it stuck in all of their minds. 

Doomworld.

A fitting home for the Legion of Doom. 

The world that they will never escape from.

The only world they have anymore. 

There’s no going back. The Spear of Destiny is destroyed, Rip and the Waverider is nowhere to be found, Amaya is dead, Stein without his memories… Sara can tell a lost cause when she sees one, and as much as she cares about the Legends, about this team...

There comes a moment when she just needs a break. 

A break from the whole damn world. 

More presently, a break from living in Nate’s mom’s basement, sharing a blow up mattress with Jax and trying not to wake the rest of the team up from her nightmares each night. 

She’d woken up from another one of those. Her head resting against her knees, trying to pull in quiet breathes as not to disturb the rest of the team, but it’s all so vivid and there. 

They’re different but similar at the same time. 

Every time it’s her; pulling the trigger, plunging the blade, snapping the neck of someone she has loved as a teammate or a friend or as a  _ sister _ .

The worst dreams are the ones about Laurel, pleading with her, blood running down the side of her face, tears in her eyes -  _ “Sara please _ -”

She hasn’t had dreams this intense in years.

Not since the island.

Not since the first days on Nanda Parbat.  

Not since - 

“Sara?”

“Sorry for waking you,” she says quickly, forcing the words out. 

In the dark of the basement room, she can just barely make out the concerned look on Jax’s face. This isn’t the first time her second has seen her wake from nightmares, and when he reaches out a hand in comfort she tries not to jump out of her skin. It’s too much and too sudden and -

She’s off the air mattress before she can think about it. Her heart pounding in her chest like it might just burst out of her. 

“I need some air,” she says quickly. 

“You want me to come with you?”

“No, I-” Her hands shake as she grabs her jacket off of the floor beside them, pulling it on as a one brief source of comfort. Leather jackets always felt like home to her. 

Right now she desperately needs a home.

“You’re coming back, right? “

She had been planning to, right? Even Sara wasn’t sure anymore. It’s not until Jax calls her out that she realizes how unsure of that she really is. How unsure of anything she is.

Their team is smaller now. Just a little bit broken. Four of them living in Nate’s mom’s basement, trying to pretend that they know where to go from here. Mick gone off who knows where. She’s the captain, she’s supposed to guide them.

But she doesn’t feel much like a captain anymore.

She would give anything to have Rip back. 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I think I need some time away from things. To figure out where I stand in here in ‘Doomworld’.”

His reply is sleep and concerned, but honest as Jax always manages to be. He’s a good kid. “Take care of yourself.” 

“I will,” she reassures him, “You’re the captain now, Jax, look after our team.” 

“You’ll always be my captain.”

(When she scrubs at her eyes while heading out she can’t tell if it’s from the lingering effects of the dream or leaving the team behind. Or both.)

  
  
  


 

She’s in a crappy hotel. 

The type of place that took the cash she placed on the table without a second thought, not bothering to ask where it came from. Back before this she had a list of safe houses scattered throughout the globe. Now she doesn’t know if she can trust the League’s safe houses.

Being away from the team was supposed to make it easier.

Being in Star City, in the city that had always been her home, that she misses every time she’s away from it, was supposed to bring her comfort. 

Now it does none of those things. 

She doesn’t feel real anymore, she feels detached, floating off into time and space but still stuck. 

Stuck in a world that is not her own. 

Stuck in a city that will never be hers. 

Stuck staring at a wall and wondering just how many more horrors her addled mind will reveal to her over time. 

More sins she’d committed while unawares. 

More friends she’d killed without a second thought because she was following orders.

Felicity.

Oliver.

Diggle.

_ Laurel _ . 

She stands in the hotel shower, long after the water has gone cold, scrubbing at her skin. Desperate to wipe away the invisible blood that lingers there. 

(A long forgotten voice that sounds like her own insists from the back of her mind,  _ “I can’t take the killing anymore _ .”)

  
  
  


 

She tracks down her dad, against all better judgement. 

Watches him through the smudged window of a familiar bar. Their family has always had a messy history with addiction, one that’s been her fault more often than not. The guilt settles deep in her stomach at the thought that is once again her that brought her dad to this point. 

Relief at seeing him alive when no one else was, no longer feels so sweet in the sight of what is so clearly her fault.

She waits out there, perched on the hood of his car until he stumbles out, drunk - forced out by a bartender that doesn’t even care if he makes it home safe. 

There’s recognition there. 

Eyes that narrow at the sight of her. The League trained her to sense what others are feeling, to be able to tell from every small movement what her target was going to do.

Fear.

Anger.

Disbelief.

Anger, again. 

Sorrow.

Hope. 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Daddy-”

“Don’t.”

His hand fumbled for a gun at his hip, hands shake and - 

This isn’t how this is supposed to go. 

“You’re not my daughter anymore.” 

(She’s not even sure who she is anymore.)

  
  
  


 

Being a vigilante in Star City is a dangerous profession. 

The last eight had been killed by her or Amaya’s hands, on Darhk’s orders.

But now Amaya was dead, gone, shattered into a million pieces. 

And Sara was -

She had to be careful. Do enough to relieve the ache, to relieve the feeling that she wasn’t doing enough. That she needed to pay back for all the lives she had taken in this world. 

She was trying. 

Just little things that wouldn’t catch Darhk’s attention.

She helped an old woman get her purse back.

Helped a drunk girl get home. 

Stopped a mugging.

Which becomes far more important in the grand scheme of things than any of her other random acts of kindness in this cruel world.

Though she doesn’t realize at first. 

It’s not until the mugger run away and she turns to the guy who had been offering up his wallet moments before that it hits her exactly  _ who  _ she’s just saved.

He seems to realize it at the exact same moment.

Relief fading instantly into fear and apprehension. Eyes widening at the sight of her. 

His voice only shakes a little when he asks, “What does Darhk want?”

Of course. That would be how he knows her. The only way anyone seems to know her in this life. As Damien Darhk’s attack dog. 

So she plays the part for a brief moment, adopts that sugary sweet tone that Darhk had had her using, plasters the smile of someone who doesn’t mind murdering their loved ones on her face, and tells him, “I need to speak with your father.” 

(She tries to remember the last time she’d seen him. It was before getting on that boat, at some party at Oliver’s place a lifetime ago.)

  
  
  


 

As far as the Legion of Doom goes, she supposes Malcolm Merlyn isn’t the worst. 

She hates him, hates what he has done to the people she cares about, hates that he had her killed but was too much of a coward to fire the arrows himself.

But she has to admit.

When compared to Thawne or Darhk… Or even Snart. 

A super villain using the spear to do nothing more than bring his family back, happy and together isn’t the worst.

Sara would do anything to bring her own family back. 

She still wants him dead, wants to kill him, even though she’s been trying to put that part of her life behind her. 

But he’s not  _ the worst _ . 

Though at the current moment, he is pointing a gun at her head so she’s feeling inclined to take all of that back.

She can’t help herself from quipping sarcastically, “I come in peace,” with her hands over her head.

Tommy is still standing there, the confusion on his face, and it would almost be endearing if it wasn’t devastating at the same time.

“Dad?”

“Go upstairs.” 

“She saved my life,” of all the things she was expecting,  _ Tommy  _ vouching for her was not one of them.

Merlyn doesn’t seem to have expected this either. 

Still he doesn’t falter, just repeats, “Go upstairs, please.”

She wiggles her fingers at him in a half wave, the sort of thing the mind controlled version of her most certainly would have done, and smile with intent on her face, “I’ll miss you.” 

This time he finally does leave.

When she turns back to Merlyn the gun is still pointed at her. So much for Tommy coming to her defense.

“Come on now, if we wanted to kill each other, we’d be doing that by now,” Sara says, “I just want to talk. Thawne fucked you over when he destroyed the spear as much as us.” 

More for the Legends.

But Darhk and Merlyn hadn’t wanted to spear to be destroyed and well, maybe he could listen to appeals to reason.

She wasn’t banking on it but - this wasn’t the first time this week someone had pointed a gun at her head. 

He lowers the gun slightly, aiming more at her stomach than her head, and after another second's pause speaks, “If you try anything-”

“I’m dead,” she offers. “Wouldn’t be the first time you killed me, would it?”

That for some reason, over everything else, seems to be enough to get him to lower his gun fully, setting it down on an end table, where she could grab if from if she really wanted to.

It is tempting, but she doesn’t move in that direction. That isn’t why she is here.

She watches as he moves about the room. Grabbing two glasses and pouring them both a generous helping of brandy. The surprises just seem to continue in Merlyn Manor. 

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

She takes the offered seat, settles into a firm couch. Uncomfortable in a high class way. She’s sat on this couch before - years ago, in another life. Tagging along after her sister in high school, drinking mixed drinks with rum Tommy taken from his dad’s liquor cabinet.

The memory brings her back.

Brings back the longing for the life that she used to have, the life that never existed anymore.  

“You really just wanted your family back,” she asks after a moment. Taking a drink of the brandy that she’s almost certain isn’t poisoned. 

Eighty percent certain. 

Merlyn looks at her, honesty on his face. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

She can believe that.

All she wants right now is her family back too.

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing that?”

“Maybe not things that have happened before, League matters and all,” Merlyn says, a smirk on the edge of his lips, like he has a secret that she doesn’t know, “But here... I told Damien not to play with his food.” 

“He did more than play,” Sara points out. 

She remembers all of that too vividly as well.

Almost as bad as the killing.

The ghost of hands on her when she didn’t want them. 

She purposely avoids bringing that up. 

Forces the bile back down her throat. 

Instead she focuses on the other bit, on the League. 

“I’m shocked you didn’t become Ra’s in this world, isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that why you killed me the first time?”

He makes a vague movement with his hand. 

Dismissive.

A not answer.

Sara takes another drink. 

“I never really wanted that,” Malcolm admits. “I just didn’t want - You know, I couldn’t even be bothered to kill her.”

Sara freezes. Her hand gripping her glass just a bit tighter. She could break the glass if she just put a bit more pressure on it, but this - this is more important.

“Her?”

Malcolm gives her a look like she should know.

And she does know.

At least, Sara thinks she knows, but she needs confirmation, needs Malcolm to say the words, because Sara hadn’t thought there was anyone else that she loved that was alive in Doomworld. So she needs -

It must show on her face, because after a moment, Malcolm sets his own drink down and fixes her a steady look. “Nyssa al Ghul is alive.” 

The glass in her hand, the one she had been gripping too tightly, falls from her fingers, shattering against the marble floors of Merlyn Manor. 

And all she can manage to ask is, “Where?”

(Closeted and miserable in Ohio, but alive. She focuses on the  _ alive  _ part.)

  
  
  


 

Sara has never been the type to second guess things when it comes to the matter of the heart. She acts on impulse. Kisses without hesitation. Falls in love at the drop of a hat, but Nyssa-

Nyssa is different.

Nyssa is the one who saved her.

Nyssa is the one who loved the darkness.

Nyssa is the one who once called her beloved.

Nyssa is the one who believed them to be soulmates.

They’d laid together one night in Nanda Parbat and Nyssa had insisted that in every lifetime, in every universe, that they would find each other. Because when Nyssa fell in love it was sudden and forever and Sara hadn’t been used to being loved like that.

She’s still not. 

It had scared her, it had forced her to run, but that love had been steady and true and undeniable. 

This Nyssa is going to be different.

She didn’t grow up a princess in the League of Assassins. 

As far as her memories would be concerned, she grew up in a homophobic small town in suburban Ohio.

As far as her memories would be concerned, Sara Lance didn’t exist. 

Her hands shake against the steering wheel so she grips it just a bit tighter. Determined to make it to her destination.  

(Soulmates always found each other again. That was how fate worked.)

  
  
  


 

Sara tracks Nyssa down and it’s not -

She’s not. 

They’re at a park, where a youth soccer game plays out on the field below them and there’s Nyssa in the stands. In jeans and a University of Ohio hoodie and her hair tied back in a loose ponytail like some sort of soccer mom.

She’s a goddamned soccer mom.

If her  _ Nyssa  _ could see this version of herself - the version Merlyn created - she would hate it.

Sara’s not entirely convinced that this Nyssa doesn’t hate herself. 

Sara knows Nyssa’s smiles better than she knows her own and she knows that look. Knows the way her eyes squeeze just a bit too tight, lips force themselves up into a sort of facsimile of what a smile is supposed to look like.

This isn’t happy alive Nyssa.

This is miserable, closeted, trapped in Ohio Nyssa.

And Sara - 

Sara can’t do anything but watch. 

She’s perched in the bleachers a few rows back, everyone assuming she’s there for a kid on the other team. No one questioning her presence. 

There’s one moment, briefly, where Nyssa turns back and catches her eye. They linger there holding each other’s gaze for a second too long before Nyssa jerks her head away, too fast, looking almost  _ embarrassed _ . Before she quickly turns and talks to the teenage boy next to her in a bright blue hoodie. 

There’s a man sitting with them.

A man Sara tries not to hate on principal. 

He seems nice enough, dark hair, baby blue eyes, a wedding ring glinting on his finger. Older than Nyssa, probably on his second marriage. The teenager is clearly his, they have the same coloring. 

He leans into Nyssa’s space to whisper something in her ear, and Sara is rewarded with the sound of Nyssa’s fake laughter in return. 

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts. 

She’s down the bleachers as quick as she can unable to watch anymore, but also unable to leave. 

She buys cookies from a group of girl scouts at the edge of the field, handing wrinkled bills over in exchange for a box of thin mints just to keep her mind off of things.

It wouldn’t be right to kill Nyssa’s husband, even if the real Nyssa would never have wanted this life or that man. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean she can’t help but imagine it. 

She’s so caught up in that, in imagining it, that she doesn’t notice someone else come up to the booth until it's too late. Until it's an oh so familiar voice asking, “Which one’s your son?”

Sara panics.

Because this is Nyssa.

Nyssa talking to her. 

Nyssa asking her a question that Sara has not prepared an answer for. 

And what would she say, “ _ I’m here watching you”  _ because no that just sounds creepy and stalker like.

So she comes up with something on the fly. 

“Actually I was supposed to meet a date in the park, but I think she stood me up,” Sara says, voicing her voice to remain steady. 

Like an admission. It’s not far from the truth. Except Nyssa is the girl and she-

She stresses the  _ she  _ just to see the small widening to Nyssa’s eyes. 

Closeted, but not lost completely. 

Before Nyssa can say something, maybe make an excuse to leave, Sara has to ask, “What about you? Which is yours?”

“Oh,” and there for a second, Sara can see the slight hint of color against Nyssa’s cheeks. Caught off guard, by what, Sara isn’t sure. “My nephew, Damien, is number eleven,” she points him out on the field. “Truth be told, my sister was supposed to be here, but she canceled last minute so I’ve spent the game making awkward small talk with her husband.”

_ Nephew.  _

_ Sister’s husband _ .

“You need rescued,” Sara offers. 

This time when Nyssa laughs it is familiar and real. 

“More than you could imagine. I’m Nyssa, by the way.”

“Sara Lance.” 

(Suddenly she remembers how to breathe again.)

 


End file.
